


The Taste of Hope: a Story About Shops and the Young Women Who Work There, Post Offices and the Young Women Who Work There, and How True Love is Really All About Cupcakes

by misura



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years, five months and sixteen days after Neal got caught, it occured to Mozzie that Something Had To Be Done, and that for lack of someone more suitable for the job (such as Neal), the someone who had to be doing the something was him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Hope: a Story About Shops and the Young Women Who Work There, Post Offices and the Young Women Who Work There, and How True Love is Really All About Cupcakes

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my lj in August 2010

Two years, five months and sixteen days after Neal got caught, it occurred to Mozzie that Something Had To Be Done, and that for lack of someone more suitable for the job (such as Neal), the someone who had to be doing the something was him.

(It would, he told himself, be good to get out again for a bit, or at the very least, it wouldn't be _bad_. Probably. If he was careful.)

 

"Excuse me." All good, proper shops in Mozzie's memory had had bells on the counter, to summon a shop assistant (or several, if it was the kind of shop that wanted to make it a bit more of a challenge for people like Mozzie to get their shopping done).

Shop assistants were what made shopping that tiny bit more interesting - and aggravating, of course, on occasion, because some of them simply wouldn't leave you alone even if you sneezed or spilled water on them. Still, their taste was impeccable. Mozzie'd never brought home a shirt or pair of pants any shop assistant had advised him to buy, and as a result, his wardrobe didn't contain a single item of clothing that didn't fit him perfectly.

In a so-called antiques shop, you could be sure that any item the shop assistant suggested to make a perfect addition to your home was worth less than half the asking price - although listening to the sales pitch made for a great excuse to linger a bit and get a good look at the security of the place.

Cardshops were a different kind of animal, clearly.

"What?" Mozzie thought he could have walked off with pretty much the entire contents of the shop without drawing the shop assistant's attention ('Hi, my name is ... Helen', her badge said, failing to mention Helen was more interesting in reading her book than in doing her job).

"Couldn't help but notice what you were reading." Mozzie smiled. He'd been told he looked cute when he smiled, and a little friendliness had never done anyone any harm. "I love that author."

The longer stare he got didn't seem very friendly. Possibly, he'd interrupted her at a good part, but then, he _was_ a customer. "What do you want?"

Well. At least he'd gotten a whole sentence this time around. He hadn't been in the right mood for a bit of flirting anyway. "I'm looking to buy a birthday card, price range about - "

"Third row on the left." Helen went back to reading. Mozzie caught a glimpse of a cover depicting a blonde woman being passionately embraced by a dark haired man, neither of them wearing much in the way of clothing, although of course the naughty bits had been tastefully covered.

Sad, really, how people always seemed to discriminate against bald people, as if being bald meant you couldn't be any kind of romantic hero. Although it at least explained Helen's utter lack of interest in him; she'd simply been biased by her reading.

 

The third row at the left easily displayed a hundred birthday cards, if not more. Some of them were obviously for kids (the numbers made it kind of obvious) and some of them were probably supposed to be funny ('remember when you used to be young?') - these were obviously not worth considering.

After a thorough study, Mozzie divided up the remaining cards in three types: (1) cute ones, with kittens and puppies and things like that, (2) generic ones, with balloons and cupcakes and other things that always worked or tasted better in your imagination and (3) the ones with a hidden political message - normally, Mozzie wouldn't be considering the third category either, but given who the card was for, he figured it wouldn't make much of a difference.

Neal liked dogs, so puppies might be fitting. Mozzie didn't feel quite comfortable with the whole loyalty and obedience thing, though; an animal species known for being loyal and trainable simply struck him as suspicious. At least with cats, you knew they were trying to con you.

Balloons seemed a little - well, Mozzie doubted if there were going to be any at the party, but hidden political messages and cupcakes might be featured, and Mozzie supposed it was always _possible_ for someone to break free from the system that had spawned him. It wouldn't be right for Mozzie to ruin that by a birthday card.

Cupcakes it was, then.

Helen didn't even look at him as he headed for the exit, the chosen card slipped into his pocket. Oddly enough, it made Mozzie feel a little guilty, almost like a thief.

 

"I want to send a postcard."

There'd been a time when the mail service was reliable. Mozzie hadn't been alive back then, and he'd never realized how much he regretted that until now.

"You can buy stamps at the counter over there, sir." This young woman didn't look like a Helen. She also wasn't wearing any kind of cute nametag that might trick you into thinking she was here to help you. Mozzie had been standing in line for close to thirty minutes for the privilege of being told where to buy stamps. He'd even gotten a number.

"No, you don't understand. All I want is to send a postcard."

Her polite smile turned a little strained. "This counter is only for packages, sir. I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Fine," Mozzie said, thinking quickly, "then I'd like to send a package." He held up the postcard.

"Sir, that's not a package."

"Why not? If I want to send it as a package, what's the problem? Who are you to determine what counts as a package and what doesn't?" Mozzie tried to keep his voice down. He wasn't here to stage a distraction, after all, or to cause a scene.

"I work here, sir." Mozzie scoffed. It didn't seem to faze her. "There are size requirements. You'd have to get a box, and - "

"Great. I'll have one of those," Mozzie said. "One box, please."

Of course, getting a box was only part of the proceedings.

"You'll need to fill out the recipient's address here - and your own one _here_." She tried to give him a pen (a clever if somewhat simplistic ploy to get his fingerprints) but luckily, Mozzie'd brought his own.

"I'm not giving you my address," he informed her. "I have a right to my privacy." Not according to the people she worked for, naturally.

"But, sir, what if we can't deliver your package to the recipient? Wouldn't you like us to return it to you? Undeliverable packages without a return address are destroyed."

"And here I thought delivering mail was what you people _did_." Aside from spying, of course. "Besides, it's a postcard, not something valuable."

Her expression turned resigned. "As you wish, sir. Would you like insurance and/or confirmation of delivery?"

"Do you need my address for that?" She nodded, as Mozzie'd expected. "Then no thanks."

All in all, it was probably a good thing he'd picked someone's pocket on the way here; given the prices the modern mail service charged, it was a miracle people still used it at all.

 

[two days later]

"Honey? Someone sent you a package." Elizabeth sounded puzzled. "I thought your family was coming over this weekend."

"They are." Peter accepted the package, surprised at how light it was.

"No return address." Which might mean whoever had sent it wished to remain anonymous. Which might mean the package contained something not quite innocent.

Peter sighed. Generally, his job didn't involve dealing with the kind of criminals who'd send people explosives in the mail. "I'll have it checked at the office. It's probably nothing."

 

[one month later]

"A birthday card?" Elizabeth repeated. "Well, that's - "

"He even signed it." Peter shook his head.

"So, why the box?" Elizabeth opened the card, reading the single line that was written inside. "And why cupcakes? Does that mean anything?"

"He's just playing games." Peter sighed. "Even now, Neal is still being Neal."

Elizabeth smiled a little sadly. "Did you really think prison would change that? Did you even _want_ him to change?"

"Of course I do! Because if he doesn't change, that means he's back to committing crimes the moment he gets out of there, and _that_ just means I'll have to go and put him back in prison again."

"And you don't want to do that," Elizabeth said, "but you'll do it anyway."

"Yes."

Elizabeth hummed as she studied the card. "I think this is a coded message, now that I take a closer look at it." Peter blinked. "Not for the FBI or you - for me."

"What's the message?" Peter asked cautiously, not quite asking _'what do you_ think _the message is?'_.

" 'Prison food is terrible - please send cupcakes'."

 

[three years later]

"These are some really great cupcakes."

Neal looked like yes, he _knew_. "Elizabeth baked them." Mozzie nodded pleasantly, taking another bite, waiting for the plaintive addition: "For me."

"Could be something in them," Mozzie mumbled. "Make you more pliant." He reached for another one.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Moz, would you please stop eating my cupcakes?"

"Could be a delayed effect. And I was planning to stay indoors tomorrow anyway. You don't need to thank me; I'm happy to make the sacrifice."

Neal snatched one of the cupcakes and started eating it. Well, nibbling on it; he'd just come back from having dinner (with Mr and Mrs Suit, most likely) so he probably wasn't very hungry. "Peter says I sent him a birthday card while I was in prison."

"That sounds like you," Mozzie said.

Neal sighed. "I don't remember it. At all. But he's still got that card, and it's got my hand-writing on the inside, and why would anyone forge _that_? On a _birthday card_?"

"Well, it got you some great cupcakes, didn't it?" Mozzie'd never tasted any of them before Neal'd gotten out of prison, naturally. It was only fair that he'd be making up for it now, especially since Neal'd already gotten a home-cooked dinner by Mrs Suit.

Neal stopped nibbling and stared at Mozzie.

Mozzie smiled a little sheepishly. "Like I said: it sounded like something you'd do."

Neal looked at the cupcakes. "Why don't I wrap some of these up so you can take them home?"

"Thank you, but no. She baked them for you, after all. And - " Mozzie brushed some crumbs off his shirt, " - it was never about the cupcakes. Not for me, and not for _them_."

(He'd tell Neal about the flowers for Mrs Suit later. And the jewelry. And the trip to Paris the tickets for which were presumably still gathering dust in a drawer somewhere.)


End file.
